


As the World Dies

by rogue_pixie88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogue_pixie88/pseuds/rogue_pixie88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coping with grief is hard. Coping with grief as the world crumbles around you is near impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As the World Dies

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: thevinegarworks
> 
> Disclaimer: The story is mine, everything else belongs to Kripke.
> 
> Set after the end of season four.

You died when he did and now you don’t live life anymore. Not really. Somehow you manage to drag your sorry parody of personality from one crippling day to the next, barely functioning at all. The moment Lucifer burst from Hell, shrouded in white light, and set his sights on the three of you, an ominous feeling flooded and choked your veins. Loss and casualty, twin threads of immense hurt were woven into the fabric of life and you knew there was no way to unwind them.

It was holed up in a long since abandoned house, all cracked windows and graffiti smeared, that tragedy struck, when all you were trying to do was recuperate and plan the next move. You remember it all so clearly. That terrible day is carved, deep and vicious, jagged cuts in your memory. Wounds of blood and tears scratched into your mind permanently.

Sam had ventured out to a store a block away, armed with a well hidden arsenal that he could protect himself with should he need to, to restock dwindling medical supplies and find food. It left you and him blissfully alone for the first time in what seemed liked weeks. One shared glance of intent and you were upon each other immediately. The restraint exercised around Sam evaporated quicker than crystal drops of water in the desert as you tasted and teased and touched. A stolen moment of frantic, heated exchange that shoved the world’s slow death to the darkest reaches and most secret folds of your consciousness. It was just the two of you, together, Hell no longer snapping teeth at your heels hungrily.

It didn’t last.

Lucifer shattered the illusion, stepping casually past the wards of protection that were painstakingly erected everywhere you stopped for reprieve. He drew you from the sanctuary of each others’ arms with harsh, mocking laughter. Oozing charm and charisma, the Lightbringer offered every possible enticement, bribing you with any pleasure you could dream of on the condition of throwing down your weapons and halting in your mission to bring him down and banish him to the confinement he despised. That, and your allegiance. It delighted him at the possibility and the irony of having not only one of God’s own, but the brothers who unwittingly orchestrated his freedom, under his thumb and ready to dispense his wishes.

When vehement refusals dashed his plans, Lucifer’s charm melted under the molten fury sizzling his flesh. Threats of bloody punishment and fiery torment burned the notion of gifts and rewards. He promised to slaughter every individual he found cowering in the corners of any town you passed through. Anyone who helped you, no matter how small the kindness, would have the skin peeled and plucked from their bones. He would bring death and disease and disaster.

You and he stood firm. Surrender and submission were out of the question and you had threats to return: every demon that crossed your path would be cut down and you would endeavor to save whatever life you could.

Your lover paid the ultimate price for daring to defy Lucifer. Under your alarmed stare an angry, red stain blossomed across his chest, ripping and splitting the skin as over-ripe fruit does under the sun.  
The Lightbringer departed in the aftermath, gone as sudden as his arrival, as you collapsed to the floor under his shaky weight and failing strength. Each beat of his heart ebbed and pumped the remaining vestiges of his life away, thick gore pulsing from his body. His eyes sought yours and through the mist of moisture he implored he didn't blame you, not for any of it, and the fight was yours now. Yours and Sam's to finish. The insignificant span of your palm pressed tightly over the gape did nothing to stem the crimson flow of blood. It hit you fast and hard, the tang of copper in the air telling you that he was going to die in your grasp and you were powerless to stop it. Powerless to do anything but watch and soak in the details of his pain-twisted face, the awful rasp of difficult breaths and the desperate fashion his fingers tried to clench uselessly in the cloth of your shirt.

Hoping for a miracle was pointless. There would be no heavenly choir or cleansing light, the wound would not be sewn together with prayer. In the moments following his death you clasped the fractured shell of his form close to your own. Still warm blood cloyed your hands and soaked into your clothes—perhaps your skin also. You weren’t aware of tears until you noticed clear trails pearlescing his red-spattered flesh. You stayed there, clutching him to you on the dirty floor of a deserted house, whispering non-sensical apologies and promises until Sam returned and pried the body from you in slack shock.

Stumbling outside, uncaring if evil was lurking nearby, you raged to Heaven. Raising your face skyward you pleaded, begged, bargained, and screamed at the higher power that had seen fit to snatch him from you carelessly, the higher power that allowed Lucifer to destroy a life so precious. Your pleas went unheard, falling on deaf ears.

What did Heaven owe you anyway?

Anger, desperation and wasted love pushed you to consider something unspeakable. Sam would berate you for thinking it, and you knew the intricacies and atrocities of Hell’s domain yet you did it regardless. You summoned one who could help. At a price. Dealing with Hell wasn't a favourable option, nor did it make sense bargaining with them when you had already turned down one deal, but Heaven had finished with you, callously brushed you aside. And you, it.

*

You crept out after dark. Leaving Sam alone in the day's aftermath worried you a little. What if Lucifer returned, intent on cutting down someone else you loved? Selfishness beat the concern down. You needed to do this.

The first demon listened to you beg, bartering whatever they wanted to bring him back. Unabashed glee smoldered in their red eyes at your flimsy sacrifice. A soldier fighting the armies of Hell dealing with the enemy never ceased to amuse the demon. Its jeering laughter rang with refusal, shrill and sharp. You dismissed them, a firm threat to kill them should they return lay lethal in your voice.

It was standing in front of the third demon to answer your desperate summons that your resolve snapped; you were not getting what you wanted this way. They barely had time to address you before the once alluring host body froze and crumbled to the dusty, dirt road. Killed coldly by your hand and you didn't flinch, didn't hesitate to end them.

None came after that.

Sam questioned your absence a few days later. Your facade of strength and stoicism splintered and shattered and Sam absorbed the story of your folly. He listened in silence, and then pulled you into an awkward half hug. A faint prayer of gratitude—something you never thought Sam would utter after the treatment Heaven had expended on him—murmured by your head. Sam was thankful that your attempt had been thwarted, glad that the perpetual need for this family to constantly sacrifice one life for another that was so ingrained in its core was finished.

*

A year has passed since he left you and Sam.

Time is strange. A mere year sounds like nothing at all, a quick flash of hours and months, yet it feels like he has been gone forever. You drift listlessly through time's loose constraints anchored only by Sam. He has been a silent shoulder of unwavering support.

In the following days of your confession and Sam’s first try to comfort you, your pride and the need to show a strong front stymied further efforts. He allowed you to brush aside beginnings of simple conversation and ignore his counsel regarding loss and death and grief so bad it tore your insides to shreds. He let you yell at him, never rising to the bait when you called him foul names and blamed him for Lucifer’s freedom. Sam patched up injuries made by reckless battle quietly; stitching and bandaging efficiently using all his years of practice, his mouth set in taut lines so as not to speak out of turn and disrupt the fragile grasp you had on your emotions.

During one such instance you peered through your own troubles and looked at Sam. Really looked and you saw he hurt, too. So you tried harder to help him as much as he helped you. He had struggled to keep you both alive at the same time as dealing with his own guilt and addiction. Thinking back over Sam’s demeanor, you realized he had suffered in silence as he experienced violent shivers that rattled his teeth in his skull and unhealthy fever that had flushed his body. He had fought and squashed the compulsion for liquid strength and you had ignored it. You tried after that, you really did.

All you had was each other as the days grew darker.

The world as it stands today might’ve been a less bleak place had he been by your side. Black days might’ve allowed the tiniest glimmer of hope to pierce your cynicism that life would penetrate the fog and flourish again unhindered by evil. Alone, all you see are abandoned ghost towns and disease-ridden, poverty-stricken cities where riots are not uncommon; people take without regard, medicines and food for the survivors of their families. The continent itself trembles with fear as Lucifer strides across it. Precursory quivers to earth shattering quakes that follow days later and always destroy with unforgiving force whole neighbourhoods. You wonder what happens to them. Have they been wiped out? Mercifully obliterated and released from the shambles of the world? Or is it something far more sinister? Has the pit swallowed them and spat them into the clutches of demons for an eternity of torture?

Perhaps it is better you don't know.

Honouring the vow your lover died making, you and Sam continue to travel as best you can, the destroyed roads often hindering your routes, helping people and protecting what you are able. The occasional exorcism and rampant killing of demons unfortunately do the equivalent of your pressured touch on his wrecked chest all those months ago. Endless numbers pour from the gates of Hell—gates that are opening all over—in organized battalions. They sweep through the world, eradicating and twisting life as they find it.

Your constant fleeing leaves little time to squat in empty establishments for more than a night. Sleeping in the car whilst the other drives is all you dare do. You imagine even with an actual bed to crash on you would have no hope for sleep at all if not for a few bottles of alcoholic assistance numbing your mind and muscles. Slumber is fickle, and the more Lucifer’s control matures the more your already disturbing nightmares are plagued relentlessly with horrific, bloody images of your dead lover’s body. Alcohol drowns out the screams and laboured breaths. Naturally, Sam disapproves. He can cope with the theft—it’s the only way to survive these days. It's that consuming the equivalent of a shelf of liquor every couple of days is apparently no way to deal with grief.

There are times after a rougher and more grueling week of fighting and running and burying the dead and being haunted by his own losses that Sam will take the bottle from your loose grip and instead of tipping the liquid away, he’ll sigh heavily and raise it to his own lips. It fills you to the brim with self-loathing because you’ve failed to shield Sam from it. All you’ve succeeded in is dragging him down the damaged path you have chartered for yourself. He doesn’t deserve that.

*

Events of the past twelve months spin through your mind as you and Sam sit side by side on the Impala’s hood; the engine warmed metal radiates heat against your denim covered skin. A sigh blows from your mouth, and Sam’s hand hovers above your arm uncertainly. For a second you think he might touch you, squeeze the flesh to show he understands. He drops his hands to his lap, fidgeting for a moment before speaking for the first time all morning.

“He wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”

You glance sideways at Sam, his haggard face every bit as tortured as your own and you wish vainly for the millionth time that things were different for him, for your only family, for your brother. You sigh once more, not wanting to heed his words. “Maybe it’s time to let him go. Lucifer isn't far away and we need to be ready.” Lucifer is a breath, a whisper away from you. He has not made a direct move since that day in the house; he merely teases with his presence. “We need to let Dean go, Cas. Or we’re gonna get ourselves killed. Think how pissed he’d be at that.”

Sam’s words sink in, sending hard spikes of pain into your chest. You wrap the weight of Dean’s leather jacket tighter around your frame, burying your nose into the fold of the collar. You notice sadly it smells less and less of Dean now. More of you and pain. Slowly he’s leaving you, whether you want him to or not. Beneath that sadness there is a realization of something else. Festering under your hurt and anguish, there's an emotion you can use: anger. That initial hot flash of anger you felt at Lucifer for ripping Dean away from his family and his purpose has always been there. You decide you’re going to channel that feeling and strike back at Lucifer and his filth.

First you consider apologizing to Sam. Should you frantically express your remorse until he accepts the overdue sentiment? Sam would probably brush it aside and insist it isn’t needed. You want to say it, say sorry for your dangerous behaviour and the names he had been the unlucky beneficiary of. You want to say sorry that along the way you forgot he lost his brother. He deserves gratitude as well for taking care of you when he could have just as easily abandoned you. He stayed out of love for Dean, maybe some for you. Finding a means to Lucifer’s end is going to be your apology and your thanks to both the Winchester brothers for all they gave willingly to you.

As you face Sam a faint trace of a smile—the first since a lifetime ago—graces your face. The unfamiliar tug is a welcome surprise. You jump to the ground and, ignoring Sam’s dumfounded look at the sudden change in your personality, lead him to the trunk and rifle though the arsenal purposefully. It is ordered the very way Dean left it; lovingly pristine, every blade sharp, every gun clean, protected with graceful sigils and complicated charms. Sam frowns at the shotgun you press into his grip. Your own hands clasp a blessed knife so hard that the intricate marking will likely dig into the delicate skin of your palm. Anticipation thrums hot and heavy in your blood, warming it pleasantly and replacing the cool, alcohol-induced numbness.

From Sam’s somewhat softer expression he can feel something, too. Taking a cleansing breath, you silently beg Dean for forgiveness; you didn’t mean to take so long to muddle through the pain and remember the need to fight. To survive. To save the world from prolonged horror. You remind him you love him, and then meet Sam’s gaze squarely. There are questions in his eyes but the echo of the trunk slamming closed is his only answer. At least until you nod once and say, “We have work to do.”

*


End file.
